She felt frustrated tears fill her eyes, and she blinked hard so they wouldn’t fall. “I wasn’tjudgingher. I didn’t—I mean—bloody hell, Henry!” She looked across the carriage at his impassive face. “Matilda has never displayed romantic interest in another person before Ashford.”
It was one of the many ways in which they were different. Margo loved pleasure, giving and receiving it. Her first liaison had been with another one of the girls at school—they’d been like two fawns, learning each other’s bodies and their own. In the seven years since her debut, Margo had carried on semi-discreetly with two charming widows and one very decorative and solicitous footman, until Matilda had pointed out that Margo was putting him in an awkward position with respect to his employment, and Margo had broken it off in horror at her own poor judgment.
But Matilda had never done anything like that. She kept her desire for pleasure—if it existed—close to her chest, unlike Margo. She had certainly never told Margo of any romantic attachments, physical or cerebral. And for her first affair to be withAshford—to involveriding crops—made Margo half-consumed by worry for her twin.
“I don’t think it’s entirelyregular,” she finally managed. “Not that either of us is governed by what is typical. But Ashford is so much older, so much more experienced than Matilda, and I—I’m afraid for her.”
There. She’d probably scandalized Henry half to death. He’d witnessed her do plenty of outrageous things, of course, but kissing her sister’samoureuxand then confronting him about his sexual proclivities seemed a new level of infamy, even for her.
She peeked up at him. He regarded her steadily.
“Margo.” His voice was kinder than she deserved. “Perhaps—well, I don’t pretend to know what’s in Matilda’s mind. But do you think it possible that if she does have, er, certain specific desires, she might hesitate to share them with you? And that her particular interests could explain why she’s remained single thus far?”
“Of course I’ve thought of that.” She’d thought of nothingbutthat. “But—if Ashford is the first person to meet her needs in this way, I fear she might be blind to his true nature. He did not speak respectfully to me—her—me,Henry!”
“I believe some people like that.” The tops of Henry’s ears were red.
Margo blinked. “To be spoken to in such a fashion?”
“To be ordered about. To do the ordering.”
“And you do not think that suggests something dark about his nature?”
“I hope not. I’ve certainly thought about turning you over my knee plenty.”
Margo gaped.
As if he had said nothing untoward, Henry continued speaking. “As long as they’re able to discuss their desires, freely and consensually, I wouldn’t think twice. But I agree that Matilda’s inexperience is concerning.”
Margo had no idea what he was saying. He hadthoughtabout… about her? Aboutspankingher?
Because she was so ungovernable, surely. Because she was wild and unseemly. Not in asuggestiveway.
Yet to her abject horror,shewas now thinking about it in a decidedly carnal fashion. When Ashford had threatened her with the crop, she’d been equal parts horrified and repulsed. But now—with Henry—warmth prickled throughout her body, an ache rising between her thighs.
She could see it, suddenly. Feel it. Henry’s big, blunt-fingered hand on her naked flesh. Her hips lifted for him. His dark eyes hot with desire, her hands digging into his thickly muscled thighs as she writhed with impatience and demand—
“Don’t you think?” Henry said.
She looked up. He looked perfectly normal, his expression a trifle concerned.
Her face was hot. The carriage was stifling. She pressed her bare fingers against her skirts and tried desperately to appear as though she had not just experienced the most vivid erotic fantasy of her life.
“To be sure,” she said, and had no idea what she’d agreed to.
Chapter 5
Henry had always thought of his self-control rather like an ewer full of water. He possessed a particular amount of restraint, and when he was around Margo, he used it liberally. He did not stand too close to her. He didn’t profess his undying love. He didn’t fantasize about peeling her out of her frock and discovering where exactly on her body her freckles stopped.
It took a great deal of his forbearance, and he found his mental ewer soon emptied of water, at which point he needed to go home, seek release, feel decidedly sorry for himself, and avoid Margo until his pitcher of discipline refilled itself.
About eight hours into their journey to Scotland, Henry had realized that there would be no opportunity to recoup his self-control. He wasalwaysaround Margo, what with this plan he’d insanely concocted in which they were never apart, night and day, for an indefinite period of time.
Apropos of this discovery, he’d begun to let certain things slip.
For example, he no longer made any attempt to avoid looking down Margo’s bodice. He closed his eyes and relished the shifting sounds of her body as the carriage swayed. He watched as she tapped a finger thoughtfully against her lips and fantasized with ravenous abandon about her mouth.
They’d passed two nights together in the post-chaise, and he used every scrap of his frayed composure to refrain from inviting her to rest in his lap, which meant that when she fell asleep on her own bench, her arm tucked under her head, he was helpless to keep himself from counting the seven freckles that curved around her mouth. When a lock of her flame-colored hair fell across her face, he reached across the carriage and nudged it behind her ear like a besotted idiot.
